Off the Land

I am absolutely fascinated by survival stories. I read Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild, twice, (it's being made into a movie, which my bro-in-law told me about, thus spawning this entry) and would stare at the photos of Chris McCandless wondering how and why anyone would want to do what he did, ultimately dying because of his choices. Or Carl McCunn who's grave error resulted in him having to choose between starvation or suicide, and ultimately choosing the quicker of the two. I watch I Shouldn't Be Alive and just cringe as people make poor mistakes only to realize, in hindsight if the are so fortunate to survive the experience, how detrimental those choices were. I can watch or read about people who choose to climb Mt. Everest, knowing full well the statistics on how many people die each year to achieve their ultimate high, and knowing they may be one of those people. I wonder why they do it.

I don't want to see how long I can survive on my wits alone in the wilderness. I don't want to climb a mountain, to stand atop it for a moment before beginning the trek back down. But I want to read about those that do. I want to flip through my book or have my eyes riveted to the TV screen as I try and gain understanding of the people that thrive to survive in extreme conditions. They will pay a ton of money to climb Everest, or they will throw every penny they have away to go and eat berries and live with the bears, in a place where money, time, human contact doesn't matter. Speaking of bears, there was that other guy, Timothy Treadwell, who studied bears in Alaska and ultimately he and his girlfriend got eaten by them. Totally captivating.

Sorry, but I don't want any part of that. I want to eat a meal cooked in a kitchen. Take a shower. Sleep in a bed that is not damp from dew. I am not into roughing it, though I can handle about a night or two, max, of camping. I love the outdoors, but to me the ultimate is to spend a day outside only to shower and dress for dinner and drinks in a comfortable setting and then sleep in a fluffy bed with clean sheets. So what drives these other types to do what they do? What is proven at the end? That they are better than people like me? They can live off of the land, eating berries and killing/cleaning/cooking their own game. They can climb the highest mountain in the world, some without oxygen and come down missing fingers or toes, $20,000 poorer, but proud as can be of their achievement. And I am not mocking the desire... it is so captivating to me, that I will be first in line to buy your book or watch your Made-for-TV movie. Sign me up... but just for that part.

Shyness is Nice

I am, by nature, a quiet person. I have always been this way. I am better at listening than speaking. It takes me a long time when I meet somebody to get to the point where I feel free to open up to them. When I do get to that point, I think that what I say is interesting and pertinent, but I don't speak just to hear my voice. I speak when I have something to say. I consider myself to be shy, introverted, antisocial. Some days, I feel more this way than others. For example, yesterday.

I just didn't feel like chit-chatting. Sometimes the banter at work is fun and nice but other times it feels like a real effort for me. I want to get into my own head, do my work, search the Internet, write my blog. But to those talkers out there who don't ever feel that way, I only have this to say to you: I am not mad at you. You didn't do anything to piss me off. I am fine, and in a fine mood. Just feeling a little bit more quiet than usual. Don't push and pry and prod. Really, nothing is wrong. I just don't feel like talking, so talk amongst yourselves and let it go. And, to be honest, a little quiet would be really nice once in a while. For crying out loud, I live with a man who can truthfully be called a motor-mouth. Just give me a break and let me be me. And I used to be a lot more shy, so just be happy that I now actually make eye contact with you.

Idiot Stick Figures With No Brains

I got really upset with Hollywood last night. I was watching "In Her Shoes" with Cameron Diaz and Toni Collette. The movie was so-so but that's not what upset me. What really got me steaming was the fact that Toni Collette's character was supposed to be considered fat. There were many jokes about her size yet if she was wearing over a size 6, I'd be surprised. She is not fat, at all. But next to Cameron, with her boy body and no hips, anyone would look fat.

Now if the character was supposed to be on the heavy side, as she was in the book, why not hire an actress who is a bit larger? Why hire a skinny actress to play a fat character? Would you hire a white person to play a black one? A man to play a woman? It is so taboo to show heavy people on the big screen. Would sales plummet that severely if there were a non-anorexic-looking person on the screen? And if that is the case, then it's not just Hollywood who has the problem. It's all of us.

I am just happy I don't have daughters yet. Or live in LA. This portrayal of women as skinny, sexual stick-figures as opposed to curvy, intelligent people is gross to me. People will say things about the scary photos of Posh Spice, with all of her bones jutting out or Nicole Richie looking like a 12-year-old girl, but those two will still get jobs in the industry. But a woman with a real body will have to work harder, lose weight to even be considered or play the undesirable role as the unattractive friend in the blockbuster movies. "The camera adds 10 lbs" the head honchos will say. I want to see a movie about the regular girl who gets a great guy in the end (or doesn't!) but not because she stooped to the standards of everyone around her. She doesn't get a make-over, or lose 20 lbs or strive to become a popular cheerleader to finally win his attention. The guy likes her because she is smart, sensitive, creative, funny. He likes that she doesn't have a boob job or wear make-up or a size 0. She's not insecure about who she is just because she's surrounded by skinny clones who play dumb to look cute. In fact, that's what makes her like herself more.

And I am not promoting obesity. I think exercise and eating well are important. I think you feel better when you're fit and healthy. But I don't think the size of your pants is indicative of your overall health. I have seen plenty of non-skeletal people who can run 10 miles. That's fit. And healthy, even if her jeans are bigger than the girl that lives on Starbucks coffee and air. And I think Hollywood should take responsibility for the messages that they convey to the public and in particular, the young public. Or, we the public should take responsibility for which messages stick.

Live in Peace, Rest in Peace

Somebody who worked at my office died two days ago. He was 38, and died instantly of a heart attack while hiking in Rwanda. He was there on a humanitarian mission for the IRC. He was with the head of the company I work for, who fruitlessly tried to revive him for a half an hour, though he had no pulse from the second he dropped. The head of our office took the trip with the body to Thailand, to deliver him back to his family. It is so sad. And I didn't even know him that well. What I do know is that in his life he worked to help the world. Doing things that you only hear about people doing. Jumping right in after the tsunami to form an organization and get people involved. Humanitarian missions to places I'll never be. Inciting people to action. Leading by example. If I died tomorrow, what would people say of me? She had an attitude problem. She liked to gossip. She yelled at her husband over silly things. She didn't call her grandmother enough.

These are the things that remind us that we had better try and live in the moment. This moment is the only one that matters, for the next may never come. I've been given this reminder plenty throughout my life. Will this time I truly make the effort to remember, or will I forget as quickly as before?

Anyway, this post is for Mach Arom. Who died young, doing what he loved. I hope to learn a lesson from the way he lived his life, and the impact he had on those who knew him.

Questionable Behavior

Is it wrong to want to sit home
No plans for Labor Day
Just me and my hubby
No BBQs or anything
Tell people we're going
Away for the weekend
But really stay home
Avoiding the phone
Make dinner and more
Watch movies and TV
Play tennis and run
Spend four days together
But away from it all
In our own little place
Anyone else would hate?

Beyond A Reasonable Doubt

I am so disturbed by the image of the creepy man-boy who confessed to killing JonBenet Ramsey. In all honesty, I am disturbed by little beauty pageant boys and girls, too, but not in the same way. The photo of this guy just makes me cringe. His pale skin and narrow shoulders and chicken neck. And the look on his face. But what is disturbing me the most is that I don't believe that he killed her. I want to believe it. I want it to be true. I want the DNA evidence to prove it all. But something is just not right. He's obviously mentally disturbed either way and has a history of pedophilia, but if it turns out that he's confessed to this crime solely because of his fixation for a little girl that he really had never known, then I will feel very sorry for America.

How quickly we change our tune. Just two days ago, if asked about this crime, many people would respond with "Oh, I know the father did it" or "the mother was definitely involved" or "it was her older brother... he was so jealous of her." We chided the way they acted and the route they took with the investigators. Well, what would you do in the same situation? Doubt you really have any idea how you would respond to something so horrifying. Enter suspect. We all now respond with "Oh, that poor family and what they've been through!", "If only the mother could be alive to see justice being served." We, America, the world, are the same people that turned against the Ramsey's after their daughter was killed. We vilified them regardless of what proof there was to prove otherwise. And now we turn immediately on our heels, ready to crucify somebody else, so happy that he's been caught. If it really is the murderer. And what about 10-years ago, when you were all so sure it was the Ramsey's? How would you have felt if they had been brought up on charges, and sentenced to prison or even death? And if the DNA proves that this confession is a load of bull, will we then swing around again, pointing the finger once more at the Ramsey family? "It really was you! I knew it all along!"

My point being, we are an emotional people. We all want to know what happened. And perhaps we'll get lucky and can all breathe a big sigh of relief if this man was the one. But wait for the DNA. See whether this case is really solved, or whether it is just taking another twisted turn. And don't be as quick to jump to judgement as I was when I first saw that creepy photo.

Be What You Wanna Be

Every year when Halloween rolled around, I wanted to be one thing and one thing only. Cat Woman. My mother had made me a costume and I loved it to pieces. It was basically cat ears and a belt with a tail attached and then a leotard with superhero embellishments on the wrists. Regardless of its simplicity, I wanted to be that each year and yet was completely, utterly shocked and surprised when the neighbors knew it was me. (OK, maybe you'll have to disregard my previous post about my intelligence.)

My sister was usually Wonder Woman. We would all get dressed up, forced to put our winter coats on over our costumes, then got in the car and went to the good neighborhoods to go trick-or-treating. Remember, we lived on a road with 6 other houses. Not a lot of candy to be had there. We had to go to a Development and would eventually end up at our grandmother's house. Eager to eat the candy, my mother wouldn't allow it until she went through it piece-by-piece. We grew up in a world in which the news would air their propaganda about razor blades in apples and the like. I think it was just a ploy for my parents to get all the good chocolate bars. But I digress.

So, I love Halloween and the thought that kids can be anything they want to be, even if it is the same thing year after year. And saying that, I'd like to share a photo of my nephew, in his costume from last year, which will be resurrected again this year. Enjoy the absolute cuteness:

Peaceful, Easy Feeling

This morning it was nice and sunny and cool-ish out. I feel invigorated. I want to get outside and exercise. I want to run, play tennis, walk through the neighborhood. As soon as I start to feel a hint of fall, I feel a spring in my step.

I love the cool weather. I love fall fashion, and the smell of the air. I love the darkness arriving earlier. I love the crackle of fallen leaves underfoot. I love Halloween and Thanksgiving. This morning's cool breeze reminds me that the holidays are just around the corner. As a kid, I loved "Back to School" time. Crisp notebooks, new clothes. I loved hunting season, too. That meant my father would walk into the house after dusk, smelling of the woods and the cold air, all camo'd out, happy just to have been out there hunting regardless of whether he got anything or not. Our home smelled like baking.

I want to go apple picking and carve pumpkins. Wear big sweaters with jeans and boots. Suede jackets and wool hats. Perhaps the time of year when you were born is the time of year that makes us happiest? I was a November baby. Sometimes my birthday falls on Thanskgiving. The best time of year.

I'm a Geek

I don't like it when people think they are smarter than me. Firstly, they're usually not (if they are indeed smarter, believe me, I will be the first one to admit it, and make a mental note to avoid talking to them in the future). Secondly, I can tell that they are responding to me in a way that makes them feel that it is actually true. Meaning that they will skim over all of the accurate feedback that I am giving to their banter. For example, they will say something that I could get involved in a conversation about, I will respond, they will pause and then continue with their point completely ignoring what I've said. Because they don't think my point is worthy, or intelligent. But then they'll use a word incorrectly, or something of that nature, reinforcing what I already know. Sit them down and ask them if they are smarter than me, and I know they'll say "yes". Sit our mutual friends down and ask their opinion and I think they would side with me. But even if I am right and this is true, the less-smart people are usually prettier than me, which is all that really truly matters.

Pressing On

It is so fucking Antarctica cold in my office today. My toes are frozen, my fingers are frozen, my nose is frozen. I am unhappy and cold. My freshly shaven legs are now prickly again, the goosebumps having pushed out the little stubbles that had been happily hidden beneath my skin when I was warm. My outfit is ruined by the gray (or is it grey? I never know) sweatshirt I keep in the office for just such an occasion. It's too small (remember the 8 lbs) and has a hole in it, but at least it keeps me from getting frostbite. At least I have an excuse to get hopped up on caffeine since I need all the hot cocoa and coffee I can get to keep my base temperature elevated. To my friends and family, if I don't make it out of here alive, just know that I did it for the thrill of reaching the summit that is my career in advertising. For without this, I am nothing. Except warm.

Like Me

Have you ever had friendship forced upon you? People want you to be friends with someone so they will urge whenever you are together, hinting at all the things you have in common, hoping that plans will form from their pressure? Awkward attempts will be made, one of the parties involved (usually me) will rebel and avoid the "let's get together sometime" conversation at all costs.

Or you'll find people in the world that think you are better friends than you actually are, not realizing that you have nothing in common? These friends will call you four times to confirm plans for that evening, not caring that they woke you up or even realizing that the so-called plan was actually a wishy-washy attempt at not hurting their feelings. "Sure, maybe we can grab a drink sometime..." "How about Saturday?" "Well, that might work."

See, my feeling is this: relationships develop naturally. If forced, there is no hope that they will thrive. Just because so-and-so thinks that you should be friends, doesn't mean that you really should. I'm not saying that everyone wants to be my friend and I have enough already so fuck off. What I'm saying is that if people are meant to be friends, it will happen. All of my best friends are people I met spontaneously, at work, at college, through a shared activity. Let things happen as they will. And if it doesn't, just let it go.

Trust me. I've been there... really wanting to be friends with someone only to find that things don't work out. Once I chased a girl I thought was cool around a pool table hoping that she would like me and want to be friends (I was drunk on martinis and the hubby still makes fun of me for it!) But don't take it so hard... some people don't even want to be around their own family members.

Nostalgia

This is a story about a little dirt road also known as the place where I grew up.

We lived off the beaten path, up a hill with only 6 other houses. The order of inhabitants, going up the drive:

# 1 was the home of a single man whom I don't ever recall seeing. My mother always said he was a very nice man and I kind of remember her talking to him a few times as we ventured down the hill to collect our mail. I would not be able to pick him out of a line-up though, and I don't know his name either.

#2 was that of married doctors with no children. Before them, a man named Henry lived there. That house overlooked the lake and for some reason I feel that Henry drowned in that lake while drunk. I don't know if that is true. It was a very, very nice house and I used to pick weeds there during the summer to make a little money. In the winter, we would sneak through the doctors' yard (when Henry lived there we could do whatever we liked) to get to the lake and go ice skating. Before them, my family used to have great parties down by the lake, roasting marshmallows, kegs of beer, sleigh-riding, snowshoeing, building igloos. Those are some of my fondest memories. My father was a very social man, and he would plow the dirt drive during the winter months, collecting $20 from each house on the street. One thing I will never forget about those doctors is this: during one of my father's collections, he was chatting with them. The were Asian, Chinese I think, and they told him about a belief that each of us is encapsulated in a bubble. If you hurt yourself badly somehow, you burst that protective bubble. I know I'm missing it completely, but years later, my father who was a heavy equipment operator, caught the blade of his backhoe on something, causing him to bump his stomach very hard into the steering equipment. It was so jarring, he felt out of the machine. After the fact, told me that he believed that that was the moment that his bubble burst, causing the pancreatic cancer that would eventually take his life.

#3 was the house of a single mom and her two kids. Their father was a drug addict that we never saw or heard much about. I babysat for the kids a lot. They weren't allowed sugar so sometimes the boy would want to have some of the treats that we were having, but unfortunately my mom wouldn't give it to him unless his mother said it was okay. Later on, his mother married a new man, and the son started getting into trouble. He ended up robbing my house and stealing my father's guns. That was devastating since my family was very close to him and always looked out for, and liked him. He was caught and my father got his guns back, but I have no idea what happened to him after that.

#4 was the home of another married couple who later in life adopted two teenaged children. I don't remember much about them except that they had a Jesus sticker on their car and when they had parties, their really crazy brother-in-law would be there and we just LOVED playing with him b/c he was super-rough (too rough, looking back) and for some reason we all wanted his attention. Kind of perverse now that I think about it.

#5 was our house, and now my brother lives there with his family.

#6 housed the dad that liked to dress up in Civil War gear and shoot blanks on specific days, while drinking a jar of pickle juice. They had one kid who I tried to befriend before she bit me so hard I ran home crying. My father told me to bite her back, so I went and waited for the perfect opportunity to do so. I was trying very hard to get up close to her and bite her back, but it was too hard so I just went home.

and lastly, was #7 which was the home of my best friend for a while before she moved away. Then a new family moved in and they were all very nice. The kids were hugely popular in school, they had a pool and the house was the biggest on the hill. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger, and then when they moved in, sometimes my sister would watch their dog.

That little drive has so many stories, and is an integral location in my life. It's amazing that the same home that I grew up in is where I go back to spend holidays. That my neice and nephew will run along the same street, up the same hills, as we did. And end up with just as many stories of their own, about all the new neighbors. They'll play on Big Rock and Pine Tree Fort and fish in Lake Winnipee and Lake Mombasha. I loved where I grew up, now more than I realized then, and I bet they will too.

Home Sweet Home

Though I am a married woman, I find that I still spend a lot of time alone. You see, my husband is a musician which means late-night rehearsals and gigs throughout any given month. In addition, he is a night owl. He does not like to leave a party, and will more often than not, be the last person standing. I, on the other hand, have abandoned my partying ways and now opt to stay home, sitting on the couch watching Seinfeld re-runs. Add a glass of wine in my hand and I am one happy girl. I will leave him out, and make my own way home, knowing that "5 more minutes" in his world really means 5 more hours. And I feel no guilt, because I will be happy once I make it to my cozy home.

Why is it that men have a harder time succumbing to the home-life? I remember quite a few Sundays growing up, watching my mother skulk around the house, a black cloud of anger and resentment covering her, because my father had decided to go to the Legion and play cards with the boys. Also, during his drinking days, we would go to parties that would undoubtedly turn bad as the day progressed and the men got drunker, while my mother would watch to see how much he was drinking because he would not want to give up the keys when it was time to go home. According to him during those drunken afternoons, he was fine to drive and his children were the most beautiful kids in the world. I hated those parties. And my mother was always having to be the responsible one. I feel that way, too.

The hubby can stay out all night, go late to work the next morning, enjoy a leisurely lunch with his friends, then spend the evening toiling away until his building closes, at 10:PM. By the time he gets home, I'm ready for bed. He has all the energy in the world, when he's hanging at his favorite bar, talking to other musician friends. But if I ask him to take care of the credit report problem that has been haunting him for years, or get his driver's license re-issued, he doesn't have the time.

I try to make our home nice, welcoming, appealing to him. And he says it is. But he is just drawn to the scene. The after-hours parties. The talk of music. The deep discussions that come after a few drinks. And why would he rather be home, with me, when all he'll see is a pile of stuff that he needs to take care of. Responsible things that he's not quite ready for. They say that boys mature slower than girls, and I know that's true. It must just be in our nature. Part of having ovaries that makes us want to take care of things. Everything in order so that things run smoothly. These men are so lucky to have us. Or are they? Their lives would still go on and it wouldn't be that bad just because a bill is left unpaid. They can be drunk and oblivious to the world, sleeping their days away and partying into the night. And we women will just forgive and forget. "Oh, he'll grow up when he gets married." Well, that doesn't happen. "After the kids arrive, then he'll have no choice." Yeah, right. I know plenty of immature fathers. So maybe they never grow up, and are happier because of it.

More of Me to Love

Eight pounds. How could it be? According to the scale in the doctor's office, I have gained 8 lbs since meeting my husband. Sure, I was in the midst of marathon training when we met, so all of those romantic nights of binge drinking were really just fuel for the long weekend runs I was committed to do. And everyone does say that you get fat when you fall in love, but that wasn't supposed to happen to me!!!

I'm not one to step on a scale. The only time I am aware of how much I weigh is when I go to the doctor. But I could tell something was awry. My pants have been tighter and my wedding band has been a real bitch to take off lately. I have maintained my ideal weight for many, many years. Even throughout college, which is an absolute mystery considering the amount of beer I drank and the slices of cold cheese pizza I consumed at 3:AM. Still my weight stayed the same. The only time I had ever gone below was during an incredibly stressful time of my life. It wasn't even good skinny... I lost 10 pounds and thought I looked scary. So my usual weight was what worked for me, and it was not hard to keep. Until now.

I know I haven't been exercising as much. At all. But I don't feel like I've been eating more than usual. I just have to blame the hubby, because he has a big appetite. Sometimes I feel like I have to eat when I don't want to b/c otherwise it will be gone before I blink. For example, if I buy myself a small carton of ice cream, that should ideally last me 3 desserts. I find myself eating it off the second night because otherwise, the hubby will get to it and on the third night, I will be disappointed to find the empty carton, spoon on top, in the freezer. I don't know if this is actually true, but somehow I know it is totally his fault.

And he doesn't deny it. He claims that he's done this to all of his ex-girlfriends... fattens them up because he likes more, rather than less, meat on the bones. Well, I want no part of that! He can have ALL the ice cream now. I am on a mission to lose ten pounds. And his sick, twisted plan to sabotage me, which undoubtedly involves cheese of any kind, will be squashed by my iron will-power. Not because I sat on it with my 8 lb heavier tush.

Drink Drank Drunk

Whenever I go, I have a hard time deciding what to drink. I happen to enjoy drinking, in moderation, and definitely have my favorites but sometimes the location, time of day, event are things I must take into consideration before committing to a drink choice.

My favorites are dirty (filthy!) martinis, red wine and beer. The problem here is that I can really only have one, maybe two martinis before I become "Mean Drunk Tracy Who Thinks Everyone Around Her Finds Her Sarcastic Wit to Be Incredibly Funny". But I LOVE the taste, when they are made right, and could down about 10 before I fall flat on my face, having offended everyone in my path. Red wine is a good choice on most occasions, except when we are someplace sweltering hot, or if I or anybody around me is wearing white. (For those of you who don't know, I was the person who, at my brother's first wedding, decided that leaving my bright red vodka cranberry aside while I danced was inconvenient and, during a fancy dance twirl, managed to spill my drink down the back of the bride's white satin dress. Oops.) Beer, though not a cause of many embarrassing moments except in college during "Beat the Clock" and nickel drafts, is very filling but nice on a hot summer day or with a grilled chicken sandwich. I used to be able to drink pints and pints of Black and Tans, and could probably still get my drink on in that way, but the only place that is appropriate is in a dark Irish pub in the afternoon. Not many people my age are still into that sort of activity, so...

I was at a wedding this weekend. It was an early one, called for 11:30AM. I didn't know what to drink. I don't like champagne or white wine. I don't even like vodka cranberry though that is what I ultimately always end up choosing at events like these. Also, I didn't really feel like drinking. It was early and I knew the party would continue way after the wedding ended. I just don't have it in me anymore. So after a couple of drinks that I merely sipped before returning to my table to find the glass gone, I resorted to sobriety. Later, at the bar, I had one delicious martini after which I decided, upon hearing myself start to talk much more than usual and at a high-speed, that I was too late to the game. Everyone else was 7 hours into their drinking, and I had just begun. I ordered a seltzer after that and called it an evening.

Jog My Mind

I need to start running again. Mostly, I need the therapy that occurs during a run. Whether I'm running with a girlfriend, talking about everything under the sun (mainly, ourselves!) or running alone, contemplating whatever it is on my mind that day, I miss the release and the calm that comes from a good run.

I don't belong to a gym anymore, because I never went and was tired of paying for it. Waiting for the treadmill to become available if I went during peak hours, or stressing about getting back to work before anyone starts looking for me if I snuck out during lunch just wasn't doing it for me. The park is (was) my gym, and I have spent countless hours within it, running loops and feeling good about my life and myself.

Yet, after completing 3 marathons, I felt I didn't need to run as hard to stay in shape. But I forgot to take my mental health into consideration. I do still run, a couple of miles at a time, on occasion, but it's not enough. I need consistency. I need to be out there at least 4 times a week, feeling as if I've accomplished something on my own. And I did start to get into that schedule again now that my job does not require me to stay later than 5:PM. But then the heat wave rolled in. From my previous post, you know how I feel about the heat. I cannot sweat more on top of the sweat I get just being alive in this weather.

But I hear a cool front is coming and I just hope that will get me back out there, running. People say "what are you running from?" to be funny when you are a runner. But what they should say is "what are you running towards?" because I know that after a good run, I will be closer to sane, closer to calm, closer to me.

Just for Kicks

I have an aunt that I adore. She loves to tell dirty jokes and will often pass me a little cartoon that she found amusing, or whisper naughty jokes in my ear. I think she amused my father very much as he loved a good laugh and getting one from a teeny little Italian woman (I don't even know if she's 5 feet tall!) made it that much better. So I have a little joke to share, though I can't recall if it came directly from Auntie Net or not. Let's give her credit anyway. I am usually a terrible joke teller, but perhaps I will be better when given the option of editing... here goes:

There was a woman who was unlucky in love. She'd been married and divorced three times, and was lonely again looking for love. She decided to place a personal ad. It read:

Woman seeks man who won't hit me (as husband #1 did), won't leave me high and dry (like husband #2) and is well-endowed (husband #3 obviously was not).

After too many losers, just when she thought she'd be alone forever, her doorbell sounded and she encountered a man on her front step. He had no arms and no legs... just a little ball of a man sitting on her stoop.

"I'm answering your personal ad" he said. A little taken aback, the woman asked why he thought he was the right man for her. He replied "Well, you're looking for a man who won't hit you. As you can see, I can't hit you. I have no arms."

"That's true..." the woman says. "You also want a man who will stay with you, who won't run away when things get rough. I have no legs. I can't run, so I'll be with you through thick and thin."

"Yes," the woman says. "But what about the third thing?"

"Well, how do you think I rang the doorbell?"

Comfort Zone

Man, is it hot outside. It's the kind of heat that makes it feel like you are standing behind the exhaust pipe of a bus all the time. The type of heat that makes it hard to breathe. Hard to exert oneself in any way. People think I'm a baby, but I can't deal with heat. My body is not equipped. Yesterday, on my way to lunch which was a 4 block walk, I seriously believed that I was going to pass out. It's that hot. The up side is that it makes me feel okay about running on Caribbean Time, rather than New York Time. It'll get done, no problem. But it might get done tomorrow. Don't hold your breath. There is no rush to get anywhere, and I like that. But back to the heat and my intolerance for it.

I wonder if I am more warm-blooded than the next person. I am usually more hot than cold. I blush and turn red easily. I sweat. Not perspire, like a lady is known to do, but sweat. Like a man. People are constantly asking me if I'm cold or worried that my bare shoulders will catch me my death. They do not understand that I am a self-sufficient oven, ever looking for a nice breeze to cool me down. Fall and Winter are my seasons. But yet, being as hot as I am, I take even hotter showers. My opinion is that since my base temperature must be higher than usual, I can't feel the water unless it is super-hot. I worry about being pregnant one day, since my chilly friends have told me that the hot flashes are really bad. How much worse can it get for someone like me? It won't be pretty. Forget the pregnancy glow... this will be the pregnancy wildfire.

Yet, all this being true, the icy cold air conditioning in my office is no treat. I have to wear a sweater to cover my freezing body especially since I have to walk walk through the even colder meat locker that is our print studio about ten times a day. I understand the equipment must be kept cold in order to work properly, but nobody needs to see nips when they pass by me. A true walk of shame complete with the lack of eye contact.

I just want to be comfortable. Perhaps once we figure out how to work the super high-tech central air conditioning in our new apartment, that can be achieved. Most likely I will just sweat and shiver until fall comes and I can open my windows to take in all that nice Brooklyn autumn air.

Why?

I know men and women are different. But I have some questions about the opposite sex:

Why do men...

...say they will be somewhere at a certain time, and then not arrive at that time? Why, after being consistently late, do they insist on still giving a set time for their arrival, even when begged not to? Is it their optimistic nature, leading them to believe that they will be home by 8:PM or do they just severely underestimate and then not learn the errors of their ways?

...like to fix things with crazy glue and velcro, even when there is a perfectly good, specifically-design apparatus for the job at hand? Are they too lazy to go to the hardware store to buy said apparatus, or do they really think that hanging a shower rack with crazy glue is a good idea?

...eat dinner at 7:PM and then second-dinner at 11:PM, even when their grandfather was known for having a very large belly?

...consistently use my razor even when he has an identical one of his own, thus always leaving me with a blade full of coarse facial hair?

...tell me when we are out of something, like paper towels, yet never stop by the store themselves?

Or is it just my man?